Verse > Anthologies > Francis T. Palgrave, ed. > The Golden Treasury
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Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury.  1875.
 
T. Campbell
 
CCLVI. Ode to Winter
Germany, December 1800
 
WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun 
His heavenly race began to run, 
Round the earth and ocean blue 
His children four, the Seasons, flew. 
  First, in green apparel dancing,         5
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; 
  Rosy Summer, next advancing, 
Rush'd into her sire's embrace— 
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 
  For ever nearest to his smiles,  10
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep 
  Or India's citron-cover'd isles. 
More remote, and buxom-brown, 
  The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; 
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,  15
  A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
But howling Winter fled afar 
To hills that prop the polar star; 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
With barren darkness at his side,  20
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 
  Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
Round the hall where Runic Odin 
  Howls his war-song to the gale; 
Save when adown the ravaged globe  25
  He travels on his native storm, 
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe 
  And trampling on her faded form:— 
Till light's returning Lord assume 
  The shaft that drives him to his northern field,  30
Of power to pierce his raven plume 
  And crystal-cover'd shield. 
  
O sire of storms! whose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye  35
Implores thy dreadful deity— 
Archangel! Power of desolation! 
  Fast descending as thou art, 
Say, hath mortal invocation 
  Spells to touch thy stony heart?  40
Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, 
And gently rule the ruin'd year; 
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, 
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear; 
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed  45
  Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, 
And gently on the orphan head 
  Of Innocence descend. 
  
But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! 
The sailor on his airy shrouds,  50
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
And spectres walk along the deep. 
Milder yet thy snowy breezes 
  Pour on yonder tented shores, 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,  55
  Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
O winds of Winter! list ye there 
  To many a deep and dying groan? 
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 
  At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?  60
Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 
  May spare the victim fallen low; 
But man will ask no truce to death— 
  No bounds to human woe. 
 
 
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